The Truth Will Out
by TartanLioness
Summary: When Sam lets slip her feelings about Foyle to Milner, it's the beginning of a bumpy ride.
1. Chapter 1

My sincere gratitude to GiuliettaC and, as ever, my darling dancesabove.

...

AUGUST 1942

She seemed to be asleep when he came to see her. He stood quietly at the entrance to the ward, watching her from a distance. She was so pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and even her hair seemed to have lost its lustre; worst of all was her breathing, laboured and shallow.

He contemplated leaving; he didn't want to disturb her, but he also wasn't sure he could bear seeing her like this. This young woman who was always so bright and so kind… it was agony seeing her in pain.

As though she could sense him there, she turned her face towards him and opened her eyes. Their dark depths, usually filled with mirth, were overflowing with all the dire thoughts running through her head.

"Paul," she said hoarsely. It was a statement rather than a greeting.

"Sorry Sam, I… I didn't mean to disturb you," he replied, stepping closer.

"You haven't." There was effort in her words.

They talked of unimportant things for a little while, but as Milner made to get up from his seat by her side, she asked quietly, "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Stopping in his tracks, Milner closed his eyes briefly in resignation. He sat down again, taking Sam's hand as she continued, "I heard the nurses talking about another woman with the same symptoms as mine. They have no idea what it is, but it killed her."

"We're doing everything we can, Sam. Mr Foyle, he… I don't think I've ever seen him like this before. He'll find a way to help you. Whatever it takes."

Sam smiled weakly. "He's been so good to me. He visits me, sometimes."

"Yes, I know," Milner smiled back. "He and Farnetti, both."

"I'd no idea it could feel like this. It makes me think that even if I should die, I haven't lived in vain. Even if he doesn't feel the same, at least I've known what it is to love someone so much it hurts."

Confused, Milner tried to make sense of her words. She seemed to be losing consciousness as she spoke, her words becoming hesitant and indistinct.

"Farnetti? Of course he loves you, Sam. As I've understood it, he asked you to marry him?"

"Not Joe," she murmured sleepily. "Christopher."

The use of the older man's Christian name threw Milner for a moment.

"Mr Foyle?" It surprised him how little he was surprised by Sam's admission. He'd spent just over two years with Sam and Foyle, listening to their conversations from the back seat. Sam's fondness for her boss was obvious; evident in the way she spoke, her jokes, and in her smile.

"Christopher," she repeated softly as she drifted into unconsciousness, a smile caressing her dry lips.

Milner released her hand, laying it gently on the bed, and stood to leave. Even as Sam slept, there was no air of peace about her, and he gnawed his lip with worry. He hadn't been around when the hospital had telephoned Mr Foyle, but the DCS had told him all he needed to know upon his return from seeing Sam. There was no doubt that Sam's condition was serious.

Milner reflected quietly that he'd never seen his superior officer so affected: once Foyle had found out what the illness ailing Sam was, he had been utterly determined to find a way to help her, to the point where he didn't seem to care what would happen to himself or his career.

…

When Foyle returned from his talk with Halliday, he was carrying a small bottle of what he called Streptomycin. Milner brightened: he had never heard of it, but as far as he was concerned, if it had any chance of curing Sam, he was glad of its discovery.

With Foyle it was a different matter. Even after handing the medicine over to the doctors, he seemed somehow flattened, as though he didn't dare to hope that it might help. Milner observed him, but offered no comment. They continued with the case, going to question the Cartwrights – though even to Milner, who earnestly wanted to help Martin Ashford, it all seemed unimportant somehow – and finally arresting Leonard Cartwright for the murder of Tom Jenkins.

…

Milner returned to the hospital the next day, and was relieved to find Sam looking much more herself. Though she was still weak and looked dreadfully tired, her breathing had evened out, her fever had broken, and the peculiar glassiness was gone from her eyes. Smiling, he brandished a bunch of tulips that a nurse had been kind enough to put in a vase, and placed them on her nightstand, before sitting down in the chair beside her bed.

"Hello, Sam," he said quietly, his joy evident in his voice. "It's so lovely to see you looking better."

"It's lovely to feel better, I must say," Sam replied. "Still not feeling top-notch, but the doctors are pleased."

"We all are. You really gave us a fright. Mr Foyle practically threatened to expose the operation that did these experiments if they didn't help cure you."

Sam smiled crookedly. "He's awfully kind. He was here last night. You know that…crossroads I was telling him about just before all this happened? Well, I've decided to just… head straight through it. Not change anything. D'you know, Mr Foyle actually said he thought I was 'invaluable'! Isn't that a jolly word?"

Milner couldn't help but grin at her enthusiasm.

"Definitely. And I'm glad you're staying with us. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"Thank you, Paul," she smiled. Then her face fell. "I do feel bad about turning down Joe, though. He's been very kind to me, but I just…"

"I understand," Milner said. "It would never have been a good idea to marry him if you weren't absolutely sure he was the one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. Marriage can be difficult enough as it is, without beginning it with doubts."

Sam sent him an understanding look. "I'm sorry things are difficult for you at home," she said gently.

Milner shook his head, thinking of Edith.

"Don't be," he answered. "In any case, the point is that you shouldn't marry Joe when you're…" He trailed off, unsure if he ought to remind her of what she'd accidentally revealed to him.

"When I'm what?" There was a note of worry in her question, as though she dreaded his response.

"When you're in love with someone else," he said softly, noticing the way her eyes widened briefly before she assumed an air of nonchalance. She couldn't hide the blush that tinged her pale skin, though.

"What makes you think I'm in love with someone else?" she asked lightly. Milner smiled in sympathy.

"I'm afraid you told me the last time I was here. You were half gone from the fever."

Sam's face fell and she bit her lip. "Oh. Oh, dear."

"Sam, don't you think Mr Foyle deserves to know?"

"You mean I should tell Mr Foyle that I'm in love with someone else?" she tried to joke.

Milner shook his head fondly. "No, Sam. Mr Foyle deserves to know that you're in love with _him_."

"Golly. I really did let the cat out of the bag, didn't I?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Oh Paul. What a mess," she said unhappily, looking down. "But I can't tell him. Really, I… I couldn't bear the shame."

"You can't be thinking that he'd ridicule you?"

"No, of course not. I'm sure he'd be ever so kind, but… but it would ruin things, you know? He'd pity me, or think I was just a silly… and then he would feel awkward around me. Things could never go back to the way they were."

Her eyes were shining with tears, and when one of them slid down her cheek, she didn't bother wiping it away. Milner knew her most desperate secret, so there was no point in hiding a few tears from him.

He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and gently mopped the tear off her cheek, his smile sad and compassionate.

...

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a short one tonight, I'm afraid. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it_

..

A few days later, Joe showed up at the hospital carrying a box of PX treats. He found Sam sitting quietly on a bench in the gardens behind the building, glad to finally be outside again. She smiled at him and stood to greet him. Taking his proffered arm, she strolled with him around the gardens.

"So, Sam, have you decided yet?" Joe asked, walking casually by her side. Sam stopped, drawing a deep breath.

"Yes. I have. I'm sorry, Joe. I can't marry you."

Joe turned to her with a pained stare.

"What? You're saying 'no'?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But… I mean… I love you!"

"I'm sorry."

"Is there someone else?"

"Joe…"

"Well is there?"

"No. There's no one else. Just a… call it wishful thinking, if you like."

"So you're in love with someone?"

"Joe, I…"

"Who is it, Sam?" He looked at her intently, his eyes pleading with her to be honest with him. Sam sighed, annoyed with him for demanding answers, but feeling sorry for him at the same time.

"It's someone I've been working with, but please don't ask me more than that," she finally said.

For a few moments Joe just stared at her, his thoughts whirling. Then the pieces all clicked into place. He flung out both hands, palms upwards in exasperation.

"Mr Foyle?! Jeez, Sam! He's an ancient monument! …_Jeez_!"

"Joe!"

"Are you kidding me? I can't figure out you Limey dames. This obsession with old ruins."

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

"Well, what did you _figure _I'd say, Sam? The guy's my old man's age!"

"For heaven's sake, Joe. You asked me to be honest. I just… I don't love you enough to marry you. Even if I weren't in love with… someone else… it still would never work out between us. While I've been ill, I've had plenty of time to think, and I've sort of… come to my senses about a lot of things. I haven't been stringing you along Joe, it's just that...I didn't recognise how I felt about… didn't realise who was most important to me."

"And that's not me."

"Sorry, Joe."

"You know what, Sam? It's fine. I should've known better than to get involved with one of you English girls," he said, his tone clipped.

He turned on his heel and walked abruptly away from her. After only a few paces he turned back, avoiding her eyes and adding miserably, "I hope you know what you're doing."

Sam bit her lip as she watched him march away from her, his stride measured, but the slump of his shoulders clearly showing his sadness. She sank down on a nearby bench, resting her head in her hands. Joe was obviously hurt, but she couldn't in good conscience lead him on. Still, his parting comment had hit home: she wasn't at _all_ sure she knew what she was doing.

"Miss Stewart?"

Sam looked up. The nurse who had come to find her smiled. "You're being discharged. And your Mr Foyle is here to pick you up."

With a sigh, Sam stood. She looked around the gardens for a moment, a little helplessly, then turned to follow the nurse back inside. In the foyer, she caught sight of a 'MAKE DO AND MEND' poster that someone had tacked to the wall – it certainly wasn't the first of its kind Sam had seen, but suddenly its message seemed to resonate with her. _Right_, she thought. _This is all right. It's not ideal, but I can make do, and things _will_ mend in time. At least I can spend time with him. I'm content with that, even if he won't ever love me as I love him…_

Sam stepped from the coolness of the hospital into the warm August sun, smiling at the small group of people gathered at the foot of the stairs: Brookie, cap tucked under one arm; Milner, standing taller than his companions, wearing an enigmatic half-smile on his face; and finally Mr Foyle, furthest to the right, his mouth curving downward and his eyes crinkling in a genuine smile.

"What a treat to see you looking healthy again, Miss Stewart," chirped Brookie happily, reaching out to shake her hand and shyly kiss her cheek.

"Thank you, Brookie. I'm so relieved to be out," Sam said with a smile, before turning to her closest colleagues. She collected another kiss on the cheek from Milner, as well as a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Turning to her boss, she wondered headily if he would follow his companions' example and kiss her. He didn't. Instead he doffed his hat to her, opened the rear passenger door, and asked, "You ready?"

Sam nodded, resolutely quelling a ripple of disappointment. "Absolutely, sir."

…

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

…

The days passed. Though their conversation in the hospital was never mentioned, Sam found herself on the receiving end of little acts of kindness and understanding from Milner, even when a new case demanded both her colleagues' full attention.

Foyle and Milner worked zealously to collate their evidence, often forgetting even to eat lunch unless Sam specifically reminded them or simply put sandwiches in front of them while they were hunched over their desks.

One day, however, Foyle excused himself just before one o'clock, put on his coat and trilby, and asked her to pick him up in the car from the Royal Victoria after lunch. Stunned, Sam could only nod, wondering what on earth could be so important at the Royal Victoria. Pondering this, she went to the kitchen to prepare a couple of Spam sandwiches and a cup of tea for Milner, who was still working in his office, looking through a mound of paperwork from the factory where the victim had worked.

She ate her own lunch mulling over Foyle's behaviour, barely even tasting the food. Normally, she would have joined Milner or Foyle and asked if there were something she could do, but today she just sat there until she decided it was time to go.

She was a little early when she picked Foyle up at the Royal Victoria after lunch; early enough to see him embracing a woman on the front steps and accepting her kiss to his cheek as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The woman was unfamiliar to Sam – not that she had met many of his friends – but she couldn't help but admire the way the lady's up-swept dark hair framed her oval face, her casually elegant clothes, and her easy companionship with Mr Foyle; she was laughing at some remark he was making, and her merriment coaxed from him a broad smile.

Faced with this tableau of affection, Sam swallowed her bile and tried to look casual as Foyle and his lunch companion parted ways and he walked towards the car.

"Any progress?" he asked, throwing her a quick glance as he got in and closed the passenger-side door.

Sam tried to gather her thoughts. "Yes, sir," she replied, her voice barely wavering. "Milner found out that Jonathan Wilkes worked at the factory briefly in '41, so he must have known Mr Baring – he wasn't the foreman then, but they were working the same shift."

"So he was lying when he said he'd never heard of Adam Baring."

"Yes, sir. He must have been."

Mr Foyle twisted his mouth and looked out of the window. She knew that look – over two years working with him had taught her much about this quiet man's facial expressions and what they meant. She knew he was deep in thought, trying to solve the case they were working on. She knew she should just remain quiet and focus on the road, but she found that she couldn't.

"That lady you had lunch with… you seemed very close," she said, trying to keep emotions out of her voice.

"Hmm?" he replied absent-mindedly. "Oh. Yes."

She bit her lip, but couldn't stop herself from continuing, "She's quite beautiful."

"Yes, very."

Sam suppressed a sigh, realising she had run out of ideas. She could hardly ask him point blank, and frankly it was just bloody frustrating. The elegance of his lunch companion hadn't been lost on her either; she'd always been proud of her uniform, but now she keenly felt the scratchy fabric, the utilitarian cut, the unattractive colour… and she felt utterly frumpy. She felt the heat of helpless fury creeping up the back of her ears; but even as part of her mind screamed 'no, you're mine!' another part berated her for being selfish. She'd promised herself she'd 'make do'… so even though her heart seemed to be shattering into a thousand shards, she forced herself to keep driving, calling in at the station to pick up Milner before heading off to talk to Mr Wilkes again.

She remained quiet as they drove, barely even listening as Milner and Mr Foyle talked about the suspect. Her mind was too caught up with worrying about the elegant, dark-haired lady who felt comfortable enough in Foyle's presence to kiss his cheek – and whose intimate gesture he didn't seem to mind.

…

The arrest was made in short order, Wilkes finally admitting to the murder when he realised that the police had found his connection to the victim.

Returning to the station, the trio parted ways; Milner to continue a different investigation, Foyle to write his report, and Sam to drink tea and wait to be needed.

Thoughtful as always, she brought both Milner and Foyle a cup of tea before settling down with her own cuppa and a book.

By the time she'd finished a chapter and drained her cup, she'd almost managed to banish the unknown lady from her thoughts. Since it didn't seem as if Mr Foyle would need her any time soon, she decided to have some more tea.

Marking her place in the book, she stood, took her cup, and walked the short distance down the hall towards the pantry door.

"I'm tellin' you, I saw it with me own eyes. In the park, sitting on a bench with a lady – and a beautiful one, too, I'd say: dark 'air, pretty figure, probably around forty – and he put a ring on 'er finger! And she laughed and kissed 'im! The old man is going to get married again, you mark my words!"

Sam had never before realised how well sound carried in the old building that housed the Hastings Constabulary, but she could clearly hear the enthused voice of one of the young uniformed coppers – Constable Davis, she reckoned – through the door.

"Would be just like 'im, an' all; proposing to a lady on 'is lunch break and then comin' back to work like nothin' 'ad 'appened!"

The teacup that Sam had come to fill rattled noisily on its saucer as her hands shook. Could this be true? Wouldn't he have told her if there was a woman in his life? Wouldn't he at least have _mentioned_ her? He _was_ a very private person; but they did spend every day together. A terrible thought struck her: what if he _had_ said something? Maybe he had mentioned her name a thousand times, but Sam had not been listening! She almost couldn't breathe at the thought. The lady she'd seen him with when she picked him up… she matched Constable Davis' description. Could it be her? Could he really be marrying her?

It was only a few weeks since he'd stood by her bedside and told her that she was invaluable to the team, but could she bear it? Could she bear working with him every day, knowing that he would never belong to her? That he'd given his heart to someone else? Somehow this new development seemed to present a worse obstacle than his presumed grief over Rosalind… Could she stand to work with him every day, knowing that she was supposed to be happy for him, but unable to ignore the way her chest ached with misery? It was pitiful, but she didn't think she could face it – her heart would break and never mend.

Grim and determined, Sam retreated to her own little niche to write a letter.

…

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A soft knock on the door made Foyle look up from the report he was typing. "Yes, come in," he called, and the door opened to reveal a pale but resolute Sam.

"Sam. What can I do for you?"

"Well, um… I imagine I should be congratulating you," she said, observing him closely to see if he would be surprised that his secret was already out.

"Hm?" he replied, distracted by the report. "Oh, right! Yes, thank you."

"I'm sure you must be very happy."

"I am, yes, extremely satisfied."

"Oh. Don't you think you ought to take the rest of the day off to celebrate?"

"Nope. It's a pleasant enough result, but I don't think it warrants _quite_ that. There _is_ still work to be done, you know," he said, a familiar twinkle in his eye softening the reproach.

Bewildered and with a lump in her throat, Sam persisted, "But you _are_ happy? About today's… events?"

"Yes, certainly," he answered calmly.

"In that case, sir, I have to give you this," she said miserably, holding out the letter she had just written. Foyle took it from her with a frown.

"What is this?"

"It's a formal request for transfer, sir. Or rather, it's a copy of the one I'll be handing in to the MTC. I'm sorry, but if Constable Davis is right, I just… I'm very happy for you, but I can't bear to stay here. I hope you understand."

Standing to attention, she saluted him, then turned on her heel to leave. As she opened the door, she stopped abruptly, surprised to see Milner on the other side, hand raised to knock. Murmuring an apology, she slunk past him, closing her eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. _Not yet,_ she told herself. _You mustn't let the grief out yet. Wait until you are alone._

…

In the office, Foyle stared at the door, dumbstruck, Sam's letter still clutched in his hand.

Milner was frowning, wondering what on earth had happened in this office that would leave Sam in tears and Mr Foyle gaping like a codfish out of water.

"What's wrong with Sam? She looked upset," he asked worriedly.

"I haven't the first clue," Foyle replied, glancing down at the request he held. Sam's loopy handwriting seemed stiff, and the words were overly formal, especially for her. "She came in here, congratulated me on closing the case, wondered if I shouldn't take the rest of the day off to celebrate, and then requested a transfer!"

"A transfer?" Milner frowned.

"Yes." Foyle stood up and paced the length of his office. "Is Constable Davis around?"

"I think so, yes. I just saw him in the kitchen… why?" Realisation was starting to dawn on Milner. If Sam had heard the same silly rumour _he_ had…

"Well, I don't know what he's been telling Sam, but she declared that if Davis was right, she couldn't possibly bear to stay here."

"Ah," Milner said. "I have some idea of what's going on, sir."

He quickly gave Foyle the gist of what the young policemen had been gossiping about.

Foyle rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. "So… because she thought I was remarrying, Sam has requested a transfer? Why on earth would she do that?" he asked.

Milner smiled, privately thinking that although Foyle had a keen mind and was one of the best detectives he'd ever had the pleasure to work with, he was also surprisingly dense in some areas. Could Christopher Foyle, with his talent for seeing through all the lies and excuses of even the most hardened criminals, really be so blind that he couldn't see the depth of Sam's attachment to him?

"For the same reason she wouldn't marry Mr Farnetti, I imagine," Milner replied evenly. When Foyle turned questioning eyes to him, he sighed. "She's in love with you, sir."

Milner couldn't remember ever seeing Foyle look as stunned as he did then. The older man's eyes widened for a moment, then he looked down and to the side, as though he were trying to comprehend what he'd just heard.

"What makes you think that?"

"She told me."

"She did?" The disbelief was obvious in Foyle's voice.

"Yes. She didn't mean to, but… when she was ill, she accidentally let it slip."

"Oh." He paused, rubbing his chin. Then, gesturing vaguely towards the door, he added, "I should probably… "

Milner nodded.

Just before leaving, Foyle turned back, and said, "Thank you, Paul."

…

The first place Foyle looked was the kitchen. He didn't find his driver there, but instead a small group of young, uniformed policemen, all gathered around Constable Davis. Though reluctant to lose time, he stepped up to them, putting on his sternest policeman façade.

"I'd just like to make one thing _very_ clear, gentlemen: I am _certainly_ not marrying anyone, and I do _not_ appreciate my personal life being fodder for gossip." Giving them a resolute nod, he then strode out of the room.

Not having found her in the kitchen, he went to the small desk she used as her own when not driving him around. When that revealed only a dog-eared book, and not its reader, he chewed his lip softly, wondering.

Finally he found her out back, hugging herself in the cool shade of the station yard. Her back was to him, but when he called out to her, she lifted her hand to her face in a gesture he recognised as the brushing away of tears. His chest ached for her.

"There you are Sam. I need you to drive me somewhere," he said, conscious of how harsh it sounded when she was so obviously upset, but unwilling to have the inevitable discussion with her here, where anyone could overhear them. If nothing else, this day served as a reminder of how fast a rumour could travel.

"Right away, sir," she replied, her voice deceptively steady. "Sorry, I just came out for a bit of fresh air."

"Not a problem." He left her then, allowing her a little while to pull herself together.

When she pulled the car round, she seemed back to her old self, if a little quiet and pale.

"Where to, sir?" she asked as she shifted up into second.

"Castle Hill Road, please, Sam. I need your help with something."

"Yes, sir." Just the fact that she didn't ask any more questions, wheedling him for details, proved to him how upset she was. Their short drive was spent in silence. When they reached Castle Hill Road, Foyle asked her to pull over and park the car.

As she pulled the handbrake and placed her hands in her lap, he said, "Walk with me, Sam. Something's puzzling me, and I'd appreciate your point of view."

…

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Here, then, is the end! _

_..._

They walked side by side in continuing silence, up Castle Hill to the old ruins, Sam fidgeting in apprehension. The breeze was stronger there, bearing with it the scent of salt and seaweed.

Foyle touched the first bit of wall he reached gingerly. These ruins had always instilled in him a strange sort of peace, but what he felt now was more akin to humility. He led Sam to his preferred spot, a bench that overlooked the sea, and they sat down. For a few moments he tried to gather his thoughts, unsure of where to start. His hand swept up to snatch the trilby from his head, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

Sam, still fidgeting, had waited long enough. She was certain she knew why he'd brought her here: to talk about her transfer request, and somehow it seemed better to broach the subject herself than wait for him to tell her how let-down he felt.

"I know you must be terribly disappointed in me, sir," she said, looking down at her hands; it took no small measure of willpower to keep herself from wringing them.

"Disappointed? No. I'm not disappointed, Sam. I'm… a little bewildered, I must say." He worked the brim of his hat with his fingers, unable to keep still in his own right.

"I wish I could explain, sir, but…" she trailed off despondently. Foyle took a deep breath, plunging into what he knew must be said.

"No, Sam. I'm the one who owes _you_ an explanation. The lady I had lunch with today was Alice Howard. She's married to Commander Charles Howard, my late wife's brother. Mrs Howard is in Hastings visiting old school friends, and I invited her to lunch; and while I did place a ring on her finger, it wasn't an engagement ring and certainly not a gift from _me_. Mrs Howard's mother died recently, and the ring is an heirloom that she hasn't had time to have resized yet; it dropped from her finger and I merely obliged by putting it back there."

"Oh. OH," Sam said, feeling suitably foolish for reacting so passionately to a rumour – the least she could have done was check the facts. Hold on though – she had! She'd asked him!

"But – sir! You told me yourself that you were happy with today's events! You agreed that I should congratulate you!"

"I thought you were talking about the case," he explained regretfully.

"No!" Sam exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, Sam. If I hadn't been so distracted, I would have realised you wouldn't suggest taking the day off just because we closed a case. And after you left the office, Milner was good enough to share something with me..."

"Oh, no," Sam said unhappily, knowing without doubt what it was that Milner had told their boss. "I'm dreadfully sorry if I've embarrassed you, sir. Really, we can just forget about this; I promise I won't make things difficult for you."

"Things are already difficult, Sam."

"I will leave if you want me to."

"No, Sam. I don't want you to transfer; I want to set light to that request. And I can't just forget about this, either. If I were a younger, better man… " He was biting his lip hard, and his eyes were full of pain and longing.

"Yes sir?" she prompted when he didn't continue.

"I would ask you to have dinner with me. I'd ask you for your permission to… court you."

"Really sir?" Sam turned large, doe-like eyes to him.

"Yes." He drew the word out. "If I were twenty-five years younger. But I'm not."

"I know your age. It makes absolutely no difference to me." Her voice was a whisper, and her eyes were earnest.

"Sam. Dear Sam… I… For the first time in a long time, I'm completely at a loss. I scarcely dare to believe you. It seems too fantastic that you should want… this. Me," he said, clearly flustered and insecure.

Sam smiled a little, touched by his admission. "What is so unbelievable about my love for you?" It was the first time either of them had spoken the word, and for a moment it was suspended, glowing, between them.

Then Foyle waved his abused trilby about vaguely and said awkwardly, "Um… well, I mean, Mr Farnetti… Andrew... they're fine-looking, courageous young soldiers… your own age."

Sam sighed and lifted a hand to his cheek. His eyes widened momentarily at the touch, but she softly stroked his skin with her thumb as she said, "Yes, both Joe and Andrew are very nice young men. Brave and sweet. But I don't look forward to seeing them every day, as I do you. I don't feel my heartbeat speed up every time I'm about to see them, and I don't dream about them when I'm alone..." She stopped short, blushing as she realised what she'd just revealed. His eyes were even wider now. She suppressed a giggle. "Besides, I told you I don't care about your age. And… frankly, I find _you_ far more attractive. I mean, objectively I suppose Andrew and Joe are very good-looking men, but…"

"But?"

"But they've never made me quiver with just a look. They've never made me want to bury myself in their arms, breathe their scent, and never resurface."

"Oh." He looked stunned. "You… you felt like that?"

"Will you believe me if I...?" Sam leaned in and kissed her boss gently on the cheek, just at the edge of his lips. She could feel him holding his breath, sitting stock-still. As she pulled away from him slowly, he fixed his eyes on her, their blue depths darkening; he shook his head slowly and deliberately, still waiting to see what she would do.

Sam smiled widely and leaned in again, letting her lips meet his fully this time. His lips softened under hers as he accepted her kiss. They were already sitting closely together, but Foyle pulled her nearer, putting his arms around her as he deepened the kiss. The taste of him, the scent of him, and the feeling of his strong arms around her thrilled her, and her heart beat so wildly in her chest, she thought she might not survive it.

When they broke apart, she kept her hands on his chest, revelling in the rapid beat of his pulse under her fingers.

"I love you," she said calmly.

"I adore you," he said hoarsely, claiming her lips again. The kiss was brief but intense. When he broke away from her, he looked fixedly at her.

"I cherish you," he said, kissing her lips lightly. "I treasure you." A kiss to the side of her neck. "I worship you." A kiss to the other side. He looked up then, waiting until she opened her own eyes before confiding earnestly, "You amaze and disarm me."

"Do you really mean it?"

"Mean it?! Sam!" He rubbed a hand across his face. "Sam, I'd like to court you. I'd like to spend my free time with you and get to know you even better than I already do. Eventually, I would like to make you my wife."

"Christopher!" Sam practically huffed. His lip quirked at one corner at the sound of his first name on her lips. "We've been together every day for two years; I'd say you already know me better than anyone."

"Yes, well, I wasn't waiting on my own account. I didn't want to… Until today, I didn't even know… I didn't want to presume… and frighten you."

"Oh. Well then, for _future_ reference… nothing would make me happier than to be your wife."

Her words, and the sweet smile with which they were spoken made Foyle's heart constrict with joy, and his normally sturdy insides melted into a helpless puddle.

"Well," he smiled crookedly, riding out the unusual sensation. "If that's how you really feel, I might as well ask you now…" He shot her a glance to gauge her reaction; nothing about her suggested that she was startled or unhappy, so he continued, taking her hands in his, "Will you, Sam? Marry me?"

"Absolutely," she replied, leaning in to kiss him. The kiss they shared was close-mouthed and sweet, Foyle's hands moving to caress her waist, while hers came to rest on his lapels.

…

Their drive back to the station was a significant improvement on the tense drive out; though similarly quiet, both occupants of the Wolseley wore brilliant smiles. Sam had to keep her eyes on the road, but she could feel his constant gaze upon her and she often glanced across to meet his warm, blue eyes. His loving look made her catch her breath.

Suddenly, an exasperated groan escaped the man in the passenger seat, and Sam glanced over again, somewhat alarmed. "Anything wrong?"

"Not as such," he winced. "Except that…um... when I was looking for you earlier, I told Constable Davis off for gossiping. Told him I was certainly _not_ getting married."

"Oh, dear," Sam giggled as they pulled up next to the station. "And now you'll have to contradict yourself."

Instead of stepping out at the front door as he normally did, Foyle stayed in the car, and Sam, grinning broadly, drove around the building and parked the Wolseley.

"You're in for it now," she beamed.

"Yep. Shall we face the music?" He raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling at her. She nodded.

They got out of the car, but as Foyle began to move towards the station, Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. She looked at him intently.

"We don't _have_ to tell them, you know," she said.

"Right." He readjusted his hat with exaggerated care.

They walked into the station side by side, closer than usual, but with no other outward signs of what had occurred between them. A purposeful Foyle sought out Constable Davis, who still looked suitably abashed, and told him evenly, "Mr Davis, whilst I still do not appreciate my personal life being the butt of gossip, I must retract my earlier statement about not getting married." He ended this statement with a brief nod to the bemused young man, and as he walked off towards his office he grasped Sam's hand, entwining their fingers.

"Milner! Could I see you in my office, please?" he called out as they passed the younger detective's door. Sam turned questioning eyes to him, but didn't comment until they'd entered Foyle's office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

"We're telling Paul?"

"Well, I should thank him," Foyle said, his lips curving into a smile.

"I should be cross with him for betraying my confidence, but I'm far too happy that he did," Sam announced, her smile showing that she wasn't angry at all; that she understood only too well why her colleague and friend had 'betrayed her confidence' – and that she was grateful for it.

"Happy, hm?" he mumbled, pulling her closer, a hopeful look on his face.

"Utterly," she grinned, pressing her lips against his briefly. A knock on the door made them pull away from each other. Milner entered cautiously, but the unreadable expression on his stoic face softened as he took in their stance; close, intimate; and the happiness that radiated from them both was unmistakeable.

"Sir?"

"Paul," Foyle began, and the sergeant's eyebrows jumped upwards at the use of his Christian name. "We, um… we've something to tell you."

The look which passed between Foyle and Sam, coupled with the fact that his boss was consciously using the pronoun 'we', told Milner all he needed to know.

"You've sorted things out, then?" he asked, his delight showing in the smile he beamed at them as Sam nodded shyly, ducking her head, and Foyle answered simply, 'yes'.

"I've asked Sam to marry me, and she has accepted," Foyle informed his sergeant, gratified that the news of their speedy courtship didn't seem to shock him.

"Congratulations to you both," Paul smiled, reaching out to grasp Foyle's right hand. Sam hugged him, shyly at first, then tightly, murmuring a quiet, 'thank you' in his ear before she pulled away.

He gazed at her fondly and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I'm assuming Sam isn't transferring?"

With an air of determination, Sam walked to Foyle's desk and picked up the somewhat crumpled piece of paper she had handed him earlier that day. Holding it up for all to see, she tore it in two and then four with a satisfying ripping noise. Then she returned to Foyle's side, reclaiming his hand.

"Not a chance," she grinned.

Fin.


End file.
